Ghost Stories
by Whovian.and.Proud
Summary: Every ghost has their story, a life before death. And sometimes, they share them. After all, it is theirs to give, theirs to tell. Some bring tales of hope and love, others of sadness and loss. And yet they still talk of their lives, their deaths. It is all they can do. A collection of short stories about the many ghosts of Hogwarts.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Don't own it. That is all.**

They all give her different questions, depending on the colour on their robes. There were exceptions and oddities throughout the long years she spent in the castle, but it almost always started with a small voice clearing their throat.

"Um…excuse me?" They were always nervous, this close to running off in the opposite direction. But the lion adorned on their robes stopped them. She would turn to them, and their eyes would dart around, never meeting hers.

"Well, uh, I…" They would often trail off at this point, looking at their feet, shifting from foot to foot. That would be when they would take a deep breath and say,

"UmIwasjustwonderingnooffensehonestlybuthowdidyoudie?" She would look at them, and even though she knew precisely what they were asking, she would look questioningly. They would stare, and then take another breath, even deeper this time, and ignoring the obvious shake in their voice they would repeat.

"I was just wondering…no offense, honestly… but how did you die?" She smiles and says that if they had time, and were willing, she would tell her story if asked. They would nod furtively, their eyes meeting her own for the first time. And then she began the story of her life.

"It was around the turn of the 15th Century, and it was a bad time for the Wizarding world. Witch hunts were common, muggleborns being ostracized by purebloods for anything and everything. Our world had changed, and the muggles were hunting to kill. Any muggleborn who showed any sign of magic were either taken to live in a wizarding village, or, if they were caught by their parents before wizards or witches got to the children, called demon spawn and executed. I was "taken" when I was five, and I never saw my parents again. I grew up with a pureblood family, the Prewetts. They taught me all they knew, and yet, they were scared that I would re-enter the muggle world and spill their secrets, leading the muggles to them and everyone they loved."

The student would look horrified, or at least somewhat scared. She would smile kindly, and before they could interrupt, as she knew they would, she continued.

"It wasn't a bad childhood, from what I remember of it. I barely knew my parents, and they would've killed me if I stayed."

"How could someone kill a kid? That's…just..." They would admonish about the state of the world and how no one could ever do something like that.

"It was a different time, you must understand. They were scared."

They would open their mouth once again, about to rage against the muggles who would do that. She, before they could do go on, would shake her head.

"I don't hate the muggles, not anymore. I did, but those days have passed. I let them go, and things are different now. Anyway, I thought you wanted to know how I died?" They would start, remembering their initial question, nodding.

"I didn't ever re-enter muggle society, but someone did. They had made peace with the Christian god, and spoke of the location of the village. I never knew who it was. I was seventeen at the time, and unlike my adoptive parents, I didn't know the freeze-flame charm. I burned."

The child would look on in shock, eyes widened and mouth slightly open. They would stare, and then finally ask one last question.

"Why didn't the village save you?" She would smile sadly, and reply,

"They were too scared." She would nod, and float away, leaving the student in shock.

{HP}

The second student would have no such difficulty asking. They would glance around before walking up to her and asking,

"Why didn't you pass on?" The green crest on their chest answered all her questions about this student. She would stand silently, her head to the side, thinking. She would always think before answering this particular question. The student would always huff impatiently. She would always laugh a little before trying to answer.

"I think it may have been because I was young. It may have been a thirst for revenge. I don't really know, maybe it was because I was simply a coward." They would look confused over her words.

"Why were you a coward?" The question was more an insult of her bravery than an actual question. She, the first time that was asked, was angry for their insinuations. Over time, she grew accustomed to the question. She knew she was a coward.

"I was scared of death." She really wouldn't have to say the last two words, but did anyway, they knew perfectly what she meant.

"Enough to return as a ghost?"

"Yes. Aren't you?" They would frown, some protesting the question, saying meaningless words of forced bravery. Most would stay silent, neither confirming nor denying. That answered the question for her.

"Death is a terrifying concept. I had stopped believing in God a long time ago, all death held for me was eternal darkness and a nothing that I couldn't prepare for. Tell me, does that not sound terrifying to you?" They would look down at their feet, their displeasure and lack of comfort showing, contrasting the cool expression from when they asked the first question.

"No." She would smile kindly.

"Really?"

Silence. Most would turn away on their heel, ignoring her from then on.

She didn't expect them to stay. They almost never did. The ones that did would only stare at her coldly, expecting a following remark from their silence. She used to apologize for stepping over an unseen boundary. She doesn't anymore.

{HP}

The third kind of student would stop and stare at her before approaching. They would often fix their blue striped ties before looking up at her. She would stay, waiting patiently for their now inevitable question.

"What does being a ghost feel like? From a purely physical feeling, rather than psychological or emotional. Though, you can say that as well. If you are to answer of course, you have no obligation to." She would chuckle slightly, and ponder on her reply. She usually answered the same thing most times.

"Hollow. Empty. I can't feel, as you well know."

"Ghosts to the living, feel cold. Do you feel cold, or a sensation equivalent to it?"

"Ghosts feel cold? No, I don't feel anything." She would look down at the student, and they would avert their eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend…" She would cut off their apology, knowing full well they meant no harm.

"I don't mind, honestly. Is this for a school project?" Sometimes they said yes, sometimes no, but they always would say it head facing the floor, guilt tracing their words.

"It's okay, I don't mind."

"I- I just…wondered." She would smile, nodding.

"I know the feeling. I was always curious when, you know." They would nod, gratefully not pressing on.

Some of them would walk away quickly, not looking back at her. Some apologized, but all never approached her again. Sometimes she would feel sorry, and sometimes not. She often would think about their words, lamenting the lack of life she had, but she would eventually forget, until the next student with curiosity in their eyes and an eagle on their chest would approach.

{HP}

The last type of student would approach with a nervous smile and a yellow badge upon their robes. They would often appear in groups, one standing out, the bravest of their group. They would stammer for a while, building up the courage, before looking up and asking,

"Are you okay?" Her transparent face would break into a smile at this. At this reaction, some would smile as well, varying the levels of nervousness. Others would widen their eyes, looking at the ground but they all would wait for her reply.

"Yes, thank you, I'm okay, just...thinking."

"About what?" They would pause, and quickly add on, "Not that you have to answer, it's okay, we were just wondering." She would laugh, shaking her head.

"It's okay, you can ask."

"Okay…about what?" Some students in the group would laugh hesitantly.

"Just…Hogwarts. My life, my death… my history."

The students would smile shyly, and ask,

"Do you need an ear? We don't have class for a while." She would smile and tell them everything, her past in the 15th Century, her death. She would tell them how she became a ghost from her strained memory, and the feeling that it comes with. She tells them her fears, her hopes, her dreams. And they just listen. Not ask, not badger, but listen.

And she would smile and thank them for just listening. And they would thank her for sharing her story. Sometimes, it took a long time, an hour or more. Sometimes, it was for ten minutes, but they listened. And she, as a person not living, felt that was the hardest thing. Just listening.

And she was so grateful for it.

**A/N: This was an experiment in writing, but I am thinking of expanding this to a collection of short stories about the ghosts at Hogwarts and their stories. They would all hopefully be different, different writing styles and different, well, stories. This actually turned out very different from what I planned, but oh well.**

**Thanks for reading,**

**Whovian and Proud.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**A/N: Still don't own it.**

Sometimes, on the quieter days in the Slytherin common room, you'd see her. She keeps to herself, and any student that tries to approach her is ignored. She seems to look beyond the children that are curious enough, not seeing their faces, not hearing their questions. Some who pester her enough with their remarks or comments are rewarded with her eyes flicking on to them, her hand twitching. These students leave, not knowing what is to come next, more silence or a violent outburst. But one, one student remained, in the many decades that have been her death, only one student.

The student's name was a first year, Irma Crabbe. She looked brutish, keeping the other Slytherin girls (being a vaguely shallow lot) from talking to her. She saw the ghost, her mad eyes glazed, knees drawn up to his chin, and approached her. Her logic being that if no one alive would pay attention, maybe one of the dead would. A morbid sentiment surely, but in her eyes, it was a sound one.

"Hello." No reply, as per usual. However, she cast his eyes onto her, hand once again twitching.

"What is your name, ma'am?" She blinked once, and to her surprise, let out a bark of laughter. Irma took a step back, chewing her lip nervously.

"Ma'am? No one's called me that since I was alive. I'm not that old! Ma'am? Really?" Her eyes were clear, something that had been unseen since her appearance as a ghost.

"Your name?" Irma smiled, "Ma'am?"

Her glazed eyes crinkled up with laughter.

"Isla. Isla Black." Irma took a step backwards, frowning slightly. A moment of silence passed, pressing down on both the living and dead.

"I've heard of you. You're that _Black,_ the one that married a," Her lip sneered in disgust, saying the word like it was poison, "… a _muggle_." Black's ghost looked down, her form seeming to curl in on herself even more.

"Yes." She looked up at Irma, eyes hard. "I did, and I will never regret it. I loved him." She turned away. "Leave." Irma looked to speak again, but Isla ignored any other signs of her presence. Irma sighed, turned, and walked away.

{HP}

The next time Irma saw Black, she was in her fourth year at Hogwarts, and facing the prospect of marrying the next Head of Black, Pollux. Her parents had already started discussions of an alliance to solidify the bond between the Black family and the Crabbe. The prospect was daunting, to say the least. She was walking down the dank corridors near the dungeons when she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned, curious, and walked towards the unknown shape. It was a ghost, with long black hair and a silvery-white wound in the small of her back. Irma shifted on her feet, uncomfortable in the ghost's presence and the ever-dripping wound that faced her. She cleared her throat nervously, the ghost not responding to the echoing noise.

"You…" The ghost of the woman did not turn, remaining hunched over whispering quietly. "You were stabbed…in the back." The ghost snapped her head around, her beady eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

"Of course. Courtesy of my dear uncle, madman as he is." She shook her head. "…Was. A curse wasn't good enough for me, he said. I chose to live with a 'filthy muggle', so I died a 'filthy muggle' way. Poetic, he said." Irma stepped towards the incorporeal figure, pity in her eyes.

"I'm sorry… He stabbed you, in the back?" The ghost rose, smiling bitterly.

"Naturally. Robert was…" She sighed, affection in her eyes. "Robert, my husband, was always such a scatter-brain. Never locking the door, the poor fool." She laughed, eyes glimmering with nostalgic love.

"He just, came in, and?" Irma stared in horror.

"I don't remember much. It was quite a while ago. But…" She halted, shaking her head in sadness. "I remember enough. His hot breath in my ear, taunting me, insulting me. I was so angry, so…confused. They exiled me, banished me, disowned me, wasn't that enough for them? Wasn't my humiliation enough for them?"

"Nothing is ever enough for purebloods." Irma looked down at her feet. Isla stared at her, tilting her head.

"No, I suppose it isn't."

"…" Irma looked up with pity and sorrow in her eyes.

"Don't look like that. You're young! You're alive. I'm not. So live." Isla smiled, but Irma merely frowned.

"Why back here? Why back at all?"

"I was so angry. And where else would I go? My place of death, to haunt the one I truly loved until he died in sorrow and regret? My childhood home, where my murderer dined and laughed? No, there was only one place to stay. Hogwarts. It was my home for seven years. Not my happiest years…"

"What were your happiest years?"

She smiled, and her answer did not surprise Irma.

"Those precious years I spent with Robert. There were so few, too few. But, I suppose… there were enough."

"You loved him."

"No, I _love_ him. That's why I stayed. I couldn't go. I _wouldn't_ go. What a fool I was. Now I will never see him."

Irma snorted with derision, and the ghost of Isla Black frowned.

"Is there something funny with my misfortune?" Irma clenched her jaw, her heavy-lidded eyes seeming to widen further.

"No… it's just rather sickeningly sweet, isn't it?" Irma laughed crudely, her dull grey eyes lit with mirth. "You fall in love with a muggle, elope, marry for love, and then die tragically. It's like one of those horrid romance novels." Isla smiled, she could certainly see the humour in it. But then she noticed something about Irma's statement.

"You seem rather…sickened by the thought of marrying for love. Why?" Isla frowned in confusion. She knew purebloods rarely married 'for love', but the way she carefully growled on the words was quite odd.

"My father is already marrying me off. I shouldn't be surprised, but…" Irma sighed, slouching in despair, leaning against the dank flame-lit wall. "I always imagined my marriage as something different, don't know why. I just feel sorry for my future children. But then, the Blacks haven't been the most beautiful people in the world, have they?" She jolted, suddenly realizing who she was talking to, exclaiming a quick rushed apology and hurrying back through the corridor, back the way she came. Isla let out a protest, but then stopped to consider her words. She was marrying a Black? In her day, Phineas would rather kill himself and his siblings then have them marry a family so low on the social hierarchy. Maybe it was a joke at her expense. She was certainly used to purebloods doing that once they knew who she was. She sighed, floating through the wall into another darkly lit corridor.

{HP}

Irma Crabbe saw the apparition of Isla Black one last time, on the eve of her final NEWT. She absentmindedly twisted the intricate ring on her finger as she flicked through the pages of her Ancient Runes textbook, her head aching dully. She put her textbook down and ran a hand through her hair, sighing loudly.

There was a cough behind her. She turned around in shock to see the ghostly figure of Isla Black. She was on the verge of laughter, and Irma raised her eyebrows in question.

"…There's wax dripping onto your notes. There has been for the past hour."

Irma frowned and then turned back around to her roll of ink-covered parchment and noticed, to her annoyance that there was a large pool of slowly cooling wax on the upper corner of her page, obscuring her notes about "the use of runes in wards and protective sigils, focusing on the process of imbedding such runes into magical objects". She carefully pushed the incriminating candle away from the stained parchment and grimaced.

"How long exactly have you been here exactly?"

"Since you began whispering nonsense encouragements to yourself, which was about an hour and seventeen minutes ago."

"You're in a surprisingly cheerful mood…" Isla grinned darkly.

"I was just around the common room when I heard from my brother's grandson that my sister in law is finally dead!"

"…That's something to celebrate?"

"She was a nasty piece of work. And she was my cousin, so…" She trailed off, smiling bitterly, her glassy eyes wide and glinting with amusement.

"So?"

"Only one to go…"

"…What?"

"Three siblings dead, one to go. Sirius was always a survivor." Irma gave her a look of horror, stepping backwards away from the mad ghost.

"Don't you care for life at all?" Isla let out a bark of laughter, eyes crazed.

"I'm _dead_! Why should I care for life? And why theirs? That family, _my_ family took away _everything_ from me, everything! And yet I should be sad, I should grieve over those _things_ that tore my life apart, I should grieve over people who would murder because of their so-called superiority? _Toujours Pur_ indeed! NO! I refuse to 'forgive and forget'; I refuse to 'let it go'! Why should I, Irma Crabbe? Why?"

Irma stood shocked at her outburst, simply gaping at the ranting ghost, before saying calmly,

"Because you're no better than them if you don't. And I'll pretend I didn't hear your comment on superiority." She stood there, head tilted towards the ghost. "That's why you 'came back'. You couldn't go." Isla regarded her words, and smiled sadly.

"Yes, I suppose so." She then smiled wryly and added, "And I'll ignore your comment about my comment on Pureblood superiority." Irma smiled in return, gesturing to her books.

"I better get back to this. I have an exam tomorrow."

"Need help? I was quite good at Ancient Runes, though I suppose much has changed…" Irma frowned, shaking her head. It was quite odd how her mood swung from anger to sadness to joy. As if reading her thoughts, Isla sighed and said,

"I am lonely, Miss Irma Crabbe. I have always been lonely, and after you leave I think I shall be lonely once more. I have never said anything about my life, about my feeling. I am just 'that blood traitor' to be ignored." Irma paused, looking at the apparition with pity. The silence that lay across the room in that moment was suffocating.

"I don't think I could ever ignore you, you shout much too loud." Isla laughed. She then noticed the ornate ring on Irma's finger.

"You are engaged?"

"I guess I could call you my 'Great Aunt In-Law'." Isla blinked in shock, her mind processing the remark.

"So you're part of the family now? I'm so sorry."

"You really shouldn't talk like that…"

"Really? I'm dead, aren't I? If I talk a certain way, it really doesn't matter." Isla laughed, but Irma's frown deepened.

"Blood is blood, and I am now part of that. Even if that doesn't matter to you…" Irma ran a hand over her face. "I shouldn't even be talking to you…" Isla rolled her eyes, huffing with annoyance.

"Are we running in circles or what? I shouldn't be talking to you, and I talk to you, so you talk to me, but you shouldn't be talking to me, and you talk to me, so I talk to you, but…" Irma held out a hand, cutting her off.

"I get it; you don't have to repeat it that much."

"Really? Because you don't seem to be getting the message." Irma sighed and turned back to desk, sitting down.

"I'm sorry. Goodbye." Isla stared at her back as she picked up a quill and began to write once more. She opened her mouth to insult, but stopped, sighing.

"….For what it's worth? I'm sorry too." She floated out of the room, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped.

{HP}

Isla Black, or rather, the ghost of Isla Black never saw Irma again. So she waited.

And waited.

The years passed slowly, as they often did. She saw many Blacks walk the halls, so many with the same dark hair, many with the same dark eyes, and many with the same sneer her lovely family so often possessed. They all sported the same green and silver tie, though some occasionally wore blue.

And still, she waited.

She saw a war come and go, saw the Blacks hold their head high as they so often did. They shook off any claim of them being on the 'wrong' side. The 'losing' side. But the whispers in the Slytherin Common room told another story altogether.

And still, she waited.

She saw a time of peace, where everything was right, and everything was changing. The Blacks still kept their head up, as did the Crabbes, the Flints, the Bulstrodes, the Malfoys. But they were drowning in an ever steady rising tide of change and the death of tradition. They struggled to stay afloat. But with the sea of change came new powers. A new way.

And still she waited.

She saw the time of the magical society assert itself once more, the waves of change now leveling out. And with it, she saw a young boy with dark hair and dark, heavy lidded eyes sit atop a stool and grin when it yelled out "GRYFFINDOR!" And she saw him wear his gold and red tie with pride.

And then, she wasn't waiting anymore.

"Hello. My name is Isla. Isla Hitchens."

**Second story done! A bit more conventional, but I really enjoyed writing this! It did turn out different in the end, but that usually happens, and I'm quite happy with it.**

**If at all you get the urge to review and comment on this short story, please do!**

**Thanks for reading,**

**Whovian and Proud**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own Harry Potter? No… Obviously. I do own all the ghosts however, if not the names attached to them.**

It was so very cold. _He_ was so very cold. It was a chill that penetrated him right to the bone, hollow and deep.

Or… was it hot? The embers glowing in his stomach made him sweat profusely, a hot poker that impaled his torso. It speared his heart, spreading the flames outwards through his body, making his nerves cower like a scared child. It numbed his skin, rusty nails lashing out at his innards.

Or was that merely the glass sticking out of his chest? The blood trickled down his broken form as the dizzy, confusing heat increased, his head pulsing and his ribs screaming, lungs deprived of air as his entire body started to shut down. He dimly felt his legs give out, irons clamped to his ankles, blood leaving his legs as the constraints dragged his body down. The ground rose, pins and needles sliding into his flesh, his organs crawling up his body, trying to escape the gouging spikes. Light ran from him, an unknown force pressing upon the back of his eyes, pounding insistently.

And then there was nothing.

Silence.

Cold. It was numb, hollow and empty and _wrong_.

Silence. He lifted his head up off the ground.

Cold. But doesn't ground feel like something under your feet?

Silence. It was a blinding white, encompassing his entire being.

Cold. There was nothing, a blank void.

And then it wasn't silent anymore.

Noise erupted around him, shouts of pain and cries of agony. It soon stopped, and he realized the sound was coming from him. But he didn't feel pain, or agony, or despair. He didn't feel anything, not in this terrifying void. So why did he yell?

Still nothing.

He fell to the Nothing under his feet. Pulling at his mousey hair in anger and despair he let out a cry, yet no sound was heard. Looking around in panic, he saw that the void was seemingly unending, blinding white stretching all around. There was no roof, nor walls, nor floor, just an empty strange limbo that just kept going. Never ending, yet never beginning either. Scrambling to his feet, he started running, trying to get away from this place that was so wrong, so empty.

"Please…" It was a whimper, a hopeless plea. He stopped abruptly as the voice echoed in his ear, spinning around his mind. It was a sound so familiar, and it filled him with a strange melancholy, spilling harshly cold water into his stomach, aching and cutting. It was worse than the scorching coals expelling from the splinter in his torso, worse than the pulsing from under his eyes. A tear crawled from his eye; trailing down his face, dropping from his chin.

"Please!" It was louder this time, but still no more than a murmur. He turned around, searching hopelessly for the source of the voice that made him ache and burn in a way that the shard in his chest didn't. But the sound came from everywhere, echoing in his brain.

"Please!" A cry of pain. It was a woman's voice, raw and scratching on his ears, roughly cutting him into ragged pieces. He swallowed thickly, his tongue a dead weight, sticking to the roof of his mouth. It tasted bitter. He continued searching for the unknown voice, but smoke was now covering his view. Sputtering and coughing as smoke poured into his mouth and nose, he staggered around blindly. The cloud of ash seeped into his lungs. There were fires around him, pillars of flame and rubble, splinters of glass and concrete beneath his feet. The terrifying scream of pure pain was still breaking his insides, stabbing him. Yet there was no heat. There was no heat, no smell of ash and fire and burning, despite the smoke pushing itself down his throat. The shards under his feet crunched and scraped, but his feet were wholly intact. Even the screams were hollow, a mere ghost of a memory. This isn't real.

Was that vision of people aflame a dream, or a memory? Or perhaps both? Perhaps neither? His entire body flinched from the abrasiveness of the memories, his memories. The dust rammed into his skin, pushing into every fragment of his being. It drilled into his eyes, stinging.

And then, there was nothing. Almost nothing. The ground spun, his head aching with a memory unseen.

A soft voice rang out, cutting the abrupt silence.

"I'm sorry too. Your body is going through immense trauma right now, and those phantom pains are going through your spirit, your soul. You cannot feel them though." He turned around in shock. There was another person in this space, this nothing. She was a child, her young eyes looking up at him. They were an incredible deep blue that he would never forget.

"Sarah? My little girl? Are you actually her?" She smiled as she considered his words, head tilted, thinking.

"Yes…No? I don't know. I'm sorry." He smiled sadly as he shook his head.

"No, it's all I could ask for." Frowning, he looked at the image of his daughter and asked, "Am I dead?"

Sarah bit her lip, eyes downcast. "Almost, I'm afraid. It's too late for healing, and any major effort now would just prolong your death, stretching it out into more pain. They are trying, but…" He nodded, and the splinter in his chest burst with agony, clawing and screeching as if aware of his impending death.

He then stopped in his tracks, eyes wide in panic.

"Linda. Oh God, what about Linda? Is she alright?" Sarah grimaced and said with pity,

"Physically? Yes. Emotionally?" She didn't answer her own question, it being obvious. He closed his eyes mournfully, shaking his head in grief.

"She didn't know, in the end. About all this, about me. I was going to tell her, about magic. I was." The not-Sarah smiled in pity, and yet it was hollow, so unlike the bright grins of his daughter. He remembered her joyful giggles, the first words, the first lost teeth. He remembered her lifeless body lying on the street, eyes vacant. This Sarah was so different, her smile of pity stabbing him. She had a full set of teeth, golden hair immaculate, and her movements stiff. He swallowed deeply, trying to forget the unseeing eyes of his baby girl.

"I suppose it's too late for that." The clipped words made him cringe, her lilting tone heavy against his ears.

"Yes, I suppose so."

For a while, he couldn't tell how long, they merely stood, regarding each other. His leg shook as her lifeless eyes bored into him. He averted her cold stare, pulling a shivering hand through his hair. She reached out a hand, beckoning.

"Come. The train is almost leaving." The hand she held out was still, her pale fingers stretched out in a gesture of friendliness. His pounding head was incessant, his brain clouded with grief.

"What train?" She smiled softly, hand still out.

"To the 'other side'. Beyond. Heaven. Whatever you want to call it. Doesn't really matter." The words seem to clang in his head. Heaven. He was dying… he was dead. Taking a step back, he looked at her arm in alarm.

"That's it? What about Linda? What about my friends? What about…" He shook his head, his breathing quickening. Water seemed to engulf him, spilling into his mouth and nose, a pressure so unbearable he thought he might die. Oh, wait.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." She tilted her head, mouth curved in sympathy.

"Stop it! Stop the sympathy, the pity. And stop looking like her! You're not her! You're not!" He bellowed in panic, turning away from the apparition masking itself as his little girl. He ran towards the storm of dust and memories.

"Stop!" Her voice was raised above the roar of his memories, fear tinging her voice. It was the most emotion he had heard from this mirage. "If you go there, you cannot leave. Ever." He spun on his heels. Sarah was breathing heavily, fists clenched. "You always wondered how ghosts are made, didn't you?" The crashing of the wreckage stopped as he fell to his knees, the words dawning on him. "If you start running, you can never stop. Ever."

"If I go with you, can you tell me what's waiting for me?"

"Can't tell you the trade secrets."

"You…you can't tell me?"

"No. Sorry."

"Just, stop apologising." He turned his head back to the raging storm.

"No, no! You can't!" He smiled weakly, chest heaving.

"I can. I don't know what's going to happen, but it can't be that bad right?"

"Yes, it can. Listen to me!"

"But you can't tell me what's on the other side of the train." Sarah was almost sobbing, hands shaking in an unusual display of humanity.

"People die, David. That's how it works. Going against that is unnatural!"

He shakily got to his feet, back turned to not-Sarah. The pounding in his head had reached a crescendo, the now acute pain throbbing behind his eyes. He was just too tired.

"Why not? Why must I never see my wife again?"

"You will! When it's her time!"

"Her time? Her time to die? How do I know that's what ahead is any better than what is behind?" Not-Sarah closed her eyes, shaking her head.

"You don't. You never will. All you can do is hold faith that maybe it's better." He seethed in anger, teeth gritted, nails dragging against his skin.

"Blind faith never got me anywhere. Blind faith got-" He stumbled on his words, voice cracking as tears welled up, "-got you, got my daughter killed. I believed in our Ministry, in our society. That only bought me pain. Why should I have 'faith'?"

"What do you want?" She looked up at him, cold eyes glaring, dull and lifeless.

"Answers."

"What answers?"

"Everything. Life, death. What's waiting for me ahead, and what I'm leaving behind." Sarah chuckled, brows crinkled. In that moment, she looked so much like Sarah, the real Sarah, that it broke his heart.

"Me. I'm waiting for you." He shook his head, stomach churning.

"No, my daughter. She might be waiting for me. And I put an emphasis on might."

"Don't be pedantic. As for what you're leaving behind… a life full of misery. Your daughter is dead, and your wife is grieving for you. What could there possibly be there for you?"

He laughed, the sound traveling up his throat like needles and glass. Reaching into the murky depths of his mind, his pride and fears, he found the answer.

"An escape. From life, and from death. An eternal limbo. Call me a coward if you will, as I am one. I admit that freely." The not-Sarah did not give the reaction he expected. She did not hiss, nor shout, she just watched.

"I have heard that many times. You've experienced the Nothing you will forever be a part of. How does this not scare you more than death? More than moving on?" Once again, the answer came easy, slipping out his insides like water.

"I cannot comprehend this, I cannot understand Nothing. No matter what I say to express the feeling of not feeling, it can't describe it. Once you describe Nothing, you fill it with something, making it tangible. It is therefore no longer Nothing."

"How does that concept alone not scare you more than death?"

"Because I _can_ comprehend death. I have seen it, I have felt it. I have thought on death, thought on 'passing on.' My tiny human brain cannot function with the idea of void. My tiny brain can think on death. And it does. That's what is scary about it. Death is real. Death is really, really real."

"So is this real, so is limbo real."

"Is it really, though? Am I just hallucinating this as I lie bleeding on the floor? Is this real?"

"An interesting theological matter, yet irrelevant in the end. Know that, whatever you choose, life will continue without you. You will die, and others will live. Such is the way of life, and death."

"I'm sorry. I can't go. I won't go." Realising of what he might do, she ran towards him. He smiled grimly. _Too late._

He fell, the ground greeting him like an old friend.

The glass splinter shattered, pulling away from his prone body, leaving a dull throbbing. He put his shaking hand over his chest, reaching blindly for the wound. The tear was open freely, pouring over his fingers. His world spun into static as he blinked haltingly.

"I'm sorry."

He felt his body rip away from him, his consciousness spiraling away, the senses leaving him for his broken body.

He opened his eyes, staring at the rubble around him, the broken pillars and shattered glass lying haphazardly on the ground.

Nothing.

He let out a sob.

No one heard.

Nothing.

**Well that was fun, wasn't it? This story went off into a completely different direction (as usual) than what I planned, but live life on the edge, yeah? I'd appreciate it so much if you reviewed, especially constructive criticism. Without it, I wouldn't be able to get better.**

**And thank you, mysterious 'Guest' for giving such an encouraging review! I shall definitely keep writing. **

**Thanks for reading,**

**Whovian and Proud.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Surprise! I'm back! Yeah I said I was going to write something more plot-oriented but too bad, I guess?**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except, y'know, all of this writing.**

Helena Ravenclaw knew what standing next to the spotlight meant. Her mother was _the_ witch. Although Morgana LeFay was the most powerful witch of her age, Rowena Ravenclaw was the most famous, the most glamorous, the smartest, and the best. The Witch. She valued knowledge and imagination, creativity and intelligence. And everyone expected her daughter, who must be as bright as her, to walk in her steps and follow her great mother. Truth was, Helena had to beg the sorting hat to be put in Ravenclaw. The hat whispered about her ambition, and her cunning, but she resolutely refused. She heard exactly what her mother thought about Salazar's views, that although she was his friend his views were flawed, impractical and outright morally inept. So she begged, to prove that she was as smart as her mother, to prove she was at least a sliver of her worth. The Sorting Hat sighed in her mind, and told her that it would only end in pain.

And then the Sorting Hat shouted out Ravenclaw and she gracefully walked towards the table. Once she was sat down, only then did she look up at the front of the Hall. Her mother was clapping politely, smiling. No special treatment for her. Good.

But of course, only her mother treated like an actual student. Everyone else idolised her mother, and expected her to be exactly like her. So, when she did not have the aptitude for precise charms, wards and runes, or powerful transfigurations like her mother, their eyes of disapproval did not escape her notice. The one thing she definitely inherited from her mother (as well as her ruthless pride – not that she or Rowena would ever admit it) was her tendency to notice details. She was observant. Too observant.

But no one ever thought that maybe she was an eleven year old with a different skill set. No one ever complimented her on her expertise with magical creatures, or her knack of creating poisons. Well, except one. He was a distasteful boy, and later, a distasteful man. A sharp face with dull eyes, the older Slytherin would on occasion follow her around the castle. He was not aware that she was very aware of his presence, but she put up with it. Creepy, but avoidable. Her few friends thought it was cute. She thought it was a nuisance. He was an idiot who wouldn't notice if he got stabbed if it meant getting closer to her.

So maybe she resented her absent, distant mother. Maybe she hated that obsessive creep Slytherin. Maybe she was frustrated with her lack of a purpose. And maybe she wasn't sure if she wanted to surpass her mother, or be separated from her name, to etch out an identity of her own.

She hated her mother, hated the complimentary creep, hated her ignorant teachers, hated her friends, and hated herself for not being better than anyone, for not _being_ anyone.

And then she saw it. Elegant and beautiful, much like her mother. A part of her whispered that it was much like her to. Only half finished, she could feel the magic on it, it prickled at her skin. She knew that magic well. It was her mothers. Only Rowena would make something so powerful and beautiful, a perfect reflection of her proud and wonderful nature. Helena rolled her eyes, but something, something in her wanted it like she had wanted nothing in her life before. If it was the embodiment of her mother, then it was the embodiment on how much greater her mother was than her. It itched at her skin, ground at her teeth and made her so inexplicably angry. But she never actually did anything. At least not for a while. She just seethed in her own envy and pride as her mother toiled on the diadem.

It was soon finished as Helena finished her schooling, now a fully grown woman. The Slytherin had stopped his advances, apparently some other poor woman had been betrothed to him, and it would not do to see him pine after another woman. She rolled her eyes as she heard the news, though she had a little pity for whatever woman was forced to marry that mongrel. The diadem was Ravenclaw's pride, her joy, and her power. And Helena just wallowed in her own filth of overpowering envy. But still, she did nothing.

Until she did. Her mother was out who knows where once more, and the diadem was just there. It had been residing in Hogwarts, but Rowena took it home once a year. She only ever wore it at special occasions, and never at her house. So Helena went on pure instinct. She took it. It was easy, no charms, no hexes. No one expected anyone to steal it, because it was so well guarded at Hogwarts, and no one ever visited their home. So there was nothing on the diadem itself. Helena knew her mother did not care about her daughter's troubles and problems; she was a mistake that Rowena had to bear. A burden.

So she took it and ran. Far, far away from their home in Scotland. She had heard of the deep forests of Albania, and decided to stay there as her mother found out until the panic had passes and she was forgotten entirely. Then, she would recreate herself with her mother's diadem in hand to become greater than her mother.

Only, things didn't work out that way.

For as observant as Helena was, she didn't realise that not only did Rowena care for her daughter, she was acutely aware of her problems. Namely, a certain Slytherin. By the time she heard his blunderings in the forest, she knew her mistake. She had underestimated her mother's desperation to get the diadem back.

(Part of her hoped it was her she was looking for, not the priceless jewel in her possession. She would never know)

But she was a Ravenclaw, and she would not be caught by that pestering worm of a man. He called for her, shouting lies of forgiveness that would never come. If she went back, she would face the shame of being caught, of being envious and proud. No, she would not yield. Still blustering and obsessive, he meandered through the forest, his loud professions of love getter louder. She knew she was caught, and she found a large tree with a hollow. Stuffing the diadem in, she ran.

But then he found her, and her feelings of hatred towards the man bubbled and boiled. She yelled, and screamed insults at the man. Delusional and enraged, he reached out a knife, leering over her as she was backed up against a tree, her energy spent by petty insults.

And then it was all over for her. That man that had followed her since she was twelve killed her. But she couldn't move on. She was too angry. At herself for getting caught, angry at her mother for being so great, angry at the man who killed her.

Helena Ravenclaw knew what standing next to the spotlight meant. But she was dead now, and every time she closed her eyes she saw her mother's disapproving gaze. She was faced with her killer every day, and the colours and insignia of her mother more often than that. She aimlessly roamed the castle walls, wound on her stomach and emptiness on her chest. Her pride had killed her. So she stayed away from the spotlight, only interacting with the members of her house, helping if she could. After all, she had an eternity to atone for her sins.

**Done! I wasn't really happy with the ending, but that's okay.**

**If you want to, feel free to leave a review! Thanks for reading,**

**Whovian and Proud**


End file.
